She was cloisteredin her parlor, as usual, surrounded by her pets—both human and animal alike—with grapes being fed to her by the hand of a young boy who looked no older than he was.
Aziel fell to his knees the moment her cerulean eyes shifted in his direction.
Camalia was approaching him, the smell of her perfume filling his nose. Aziel’s hands tightened into fists at his sides.
“You’re accepting my offer?” Camalia hummed, extending a sharp-tipped finger and running it along his jaw.
He had no other option.
This is the only way.
This is the only way.
This. Is. The. Only. Way.
“Under one condition.” He could hardly hear his own voice. It sounded like it was coming from a place miles away, but he'd never spoken something with this much heart—this much courage. He looked up into Camalia Yaarborough's eyes. “Nymiria Celentas."
Chapter 1
Moonflowers did not usually bloom this time of year.
Nymiria frowned down at the stubborn vine, letting out a huff as her eyes scanned over the rest of the garden, perfectly decorated with new flowers—bright and vibrant colors to welcome the warmest season of the year. She hadn't been tasked to be the lead gardener of the palace grounds, it was something of a hobby that the king was so abundantly pleased with that he let her take control over this particular location. He'd gifted her her own garden on her eighteenth nameday, complete with a fountain and a tiny pond that was fed by one of the nearby creeks. It was one of her many nightly routines to sit by that very pond and read her books, listening to the frogs croaking and the crickets chirping.
Her garden was kept secluded from the rest of the property, surrounded by looming evergreens and an iron fence with decorative crows perched on top of the spires at the front gate. She wasn't always fond of crows, but she'd gained a likeness towards them the more time she spent tending to her garden. With a sigh, she tossed the morning glories to the side with the other weeds, frowning down at the vivid purple that stuck out among the yellow wild flowers she'd planted for the summer. "You are beautiful," she said. "But you don't belong here."
Wiping the condensation from her brow, Nymiria turned and walked out of the gate. She didn't bother locking it. The guests actually quite liked to frequent her garden. It was one of the prettiest on the palace grounds. And with it beingso well hidden, it often gained popularity during parties—when the drinks and hormones finally got to peoples' heads and they vanished into the darkness with their partners, in search of a private place to get closer to one another. It was a shame, she believed, that all of her hard work and her care often became nothing more than a backdrop for vigorous and frantic sex, rather than being admired for what it was.
The King of Yaar had gifted her the key to this garden. And while she hated him deeply, there were very rare occasions when she appreciated his attention to detail and his respect for her interests. For reasons unbeknownst to her, the king had taken a liking to her almost as soon as he laid eyes on her. She spent four long, cold, and dark weeks locked in the dungeons before the king made her stand trial for her crimes. Forced to become a courtesan without even speaking her case.
There were many reasons she should have hated them all. Just as there were reasons to hate, there were also many reasons for her complacency.
When she first arrived in Yaar at the age of fifteen, the masked man that pulled her from the iron cage and cleaned her up looked her right in the eyes and said in warning:“I'll make sure that you are safe. Perform well, play your part, but donottrust them."
She didn't understand what the man meant at the time, but there was a lot that Nymiria had to learn since arriving in Yaar. She didn’t know how to dance, how to dress, or style her hair, and she most certainly was not well versed in the art of seduction. Hell, she didn’t even know what sexwaswhen she came to stay here.Not until they sent her to live in the courtesan wing with the other girls. Not until a young man with green eyes and the most silky golden curls came stumbling into her room—
Don't go there. Nymiria tugged at a weed, teeth gritted and hands aching from all of the pulling.
Some of the courtesans were like her—not Mystics, but girls that were captured, taken from their homes in far off villages that were once thriving with art and exuberance…
Not that Yaar wasn’t thriving, per say, it simply just was not as lustrous as the life she remembered having in the Beyond. She remembered soft pastels and bright bursts of bold color. She remembered exciting songs that made one feel something and food and drink that had you drunk with joy. It was an intoxicating life. Perhaps it was not always color and excitement, but it was good.
Everything in Yaar was bleak, unspectacular and quite dreary.
The city of Yaar, where she'd been forced to live for the last ten years, was a place that was under the coverage of gray clouds and thick mists that could swallow you whole if the humidity permitted it. The buildings and homes were all dark and spired, high and pointed in the direction of the heavens. It was beautifully ominous, inspiring those who perused their streets to be overwhelmed with both awe and dread.
“To inspire us to believe that Yaar is a place of the gods. Art does awaken one’s soul—should make one feel many things or all things all at once.”King Dorid Yaarborough once told her on one of her very first walks around his kingdom.
She was intended to be Dorid’s courtesan once she came of age. They prepared everything for her training, but upon speaking with her, on their very first official meeting, Dorid believed that Nymiria would be better suited for his son. To “inspire him” because she, herself, was a strange and ominous creature that he considered to be art. An odd conclusion for a fully grown man to come to about a fifteen year old girl, but to each their own, she supposed. Nymiria could only conclude that it was their way of life and it was not odd for a grown man to promenade with a pubescent child in their culture. In the Beyond, he would have been hanged for merely insinuating he took any interest in her.
To be quite honest, she missed that part.
But there was not much of the Beyond for her to mourn.
Her mother was gone, she did not know her father, and she had no siblings or relatives of which she was aware. She was taken care of by the people her mother, a prominent figure in Mystic society, left behind when she was taken. They hated her for what her mother did. Nymiria could always see it in theireyes—the pain of what they believed to be her mother's betrayal written all over their faces. She felt as if she was only a reminder of her mother’s choices. Nymiria would never forget how worthless those people made her feel, nor how much she felt she deserved it.
It didn't change. Even now, Nymiria would look at herself, doused in all of their finery and jewels worth more than a house, and absolutely abhor everything that she saw. She would eat Yaar food, which was quite delicious, and drink their wines and dance with their men—she would do all of these wonderful, fruitless things and be haunted by the faces of the dead she'd all but wiped her hands of.
Worthless.
